Have a Good Day?? Don't Fucking Tell Me What to Do. (Not for the Faint of Balls. I Mean, Heart)

There is a severe shortage of people who will allow curmudgeons like me the opportunity to freely express and experience our periodic emotional cracks, grumbles, and the occasional sourness that allows us to function the rest of the time in a somewhat normal fashion.  (We even go so far as to smile and laugh sometimes.  We just don't feel the need to fucking brag about it all the damn time.)  There is totally nothing wrong with being surly.  Those of you who smile too much could really learn a thing or two about a nice cleansing grumble from time to time.       

While talking to my girlfriend on the phone the other night, I sorta experienced a psychotic break and ranted for a few minutes.  Uh, I mean, I 'had an enlightening and life-changing epiphany'.  We were talking about how 1) Shit happens. and 2) The occasional acknowledgment of said "shit" does not equal a life ruining event. (She has been on the other end of the phone for some of the fo-serious "bad shit" so...she is kind of an expert in that area.)  In fact, having the ability to be able to freely express the occasional disappointment and stuff is normal and sometimes even healthy.  We may not always do it in the most flowery and sugar-coated way, but that takes practice.  I guess.  This means sometimes I am not going to be the most pleasant person to be around on any given day.  As the imaginary sign on my office door says:  "Deal or GTFO".  It's right next to my Employee of the Month plaque (also imaginary).

Honestly, I really don't know why I have not been selected to run a Team Building course at work.  Nothing brings a group closer together than some good old fashioned bitching and non-constructive criticism.  In fact, one of my former "managers" did give me a glowing recommendation this one time when she told me she had a dream I came into work and went postal on everyone.  My response was "Well, you know, Captain Twatwaffle (not her real name), if anyone was going to do it, it would be me!"  *charming smile*  It dawned on me later that she may not have intended that as a compliment.  Huh....go figure.  

ANYhoodles - If you want to be my friend or .... something, don't be afraid to ask me how my day is going - even if you know I'm going to say I stabbed someone with my stapler.  You have to be willing to hear the bad shit along with the sunshine and rainbows stuff (which I personally find a little boring).  Also, don't try to force a smile out of me before I am good and ready.  I will get there in my own time.  But there exists a fine line between me tolerating your "charm" and my foot up your ass.

Do you want to know how to irritate me before I've had my coffee?  Tell me to have a good day.  Bonus points:  Do it in a sing-songy voice.   Bossy asshole.  I will shove that coffee stirrer so far up your ass, your proctologist will have to perform a deep sea dive to get that sucker out.  (Snorkeling, anyone?)

Things I Could Do Without:

• Endless optimism for no apparent reason.  That shit is annoying as fuck.  I don't care if your glass is half full.  If you incessantly brag about it, I will turn that mother fucker upside down on your head.  

      

• Birds chirping.  (Also annoying as fuck.)  It's snowing outside you asshole birds.  Knock it off.

• Singing mice who also whistle while making me pretty dresses.  (Eh, on second thought, those might be pretty cool.  I will kiss them and hug them and name them George and Marley.  I will teach them to juggle tiny things and we will get discovered and have our own variety show and become rich and famous.  See?  I'm charming as FUCK.)

• Lemonade.  I prefer tequila and salt with my lemons.  And lots of it.

• Someone saying to me:  "Smile!  It could always be worse!*smiley face*"  No shit, Sherlock.  I've probably seen more "worse" than your happy little ball of friggin sunshine ass would allow to enter into its awesome bubbly realm of glowing fantastical and utterly magical happiness.  Please allow me this moment of "Ugh" while I work my way up to "Not killy".  If you tell me to smile for no god damned reason I will stab you in the face with a crayon.   (That may not sound very bad, but it will probably be a broken crayon - yes - as broken as my poor twisted black emo heart - and thus maybe slightly sharp.  Or at least kinda jagged..or something.)  Danger?  My middle name is Danger.  So suck on that.

• Stop trying to make "perky" happen.  It's not going to happen.

Things I Need in My Life:

• Friends who will leave me the fuck alone when I need space to just think, or breathe or .... cry (Psh, I don't cry, but I mean, IF I did.)

• Friends (uh, probably different friends) who will let me call and scream into the phone for no apparent reason.  These friends should speak fluent Angst and also be able to reassure me that, no matter what I am upset about, I am right, everyone else is wrong and I was completely justified in keying the car of the barrista who failed to put enough cream in my coffee. I mean, justified in whatever action may or may not have been the result of my distress.  (Ignore the part about the car keying.  You can't prove SHIT.)

• A period playlist.  Some tunes to jam out to while I am droppin' eggs would be the shiz.  Something upbeat and soothing by, like, "Drowning Pool" or "Avenged Sevenfold".

• A gay best friend.  I need a man in my life who can hold me, stroke my hair, (without the boner thx) and let me lament about that shoe sale I missed, while I beat my fists against the wall and scream "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!?!"  And then write some haiku poetry about why DSW hates me.  Nobody understands the fucking tragedy of a missed shoe sale like a gay BFF.  Nobody.

• An unlimited supply of chocolate-covered-everything with zero calories - covered in whipped cream.

• Bacon.

• A life-sized Jon Hamm doll.

• Ten thousand dollars in unmarked bills.  (Why? Because fuck off, that's why.  It's MY list.)

• A heating pad and some Midalium.  (That's a drug I invented which is a combination of Midol and Valium.  You're welcome.)

I really don't think that is too much to ask, do you? 

Dick.

This blog has been brought to you by the letters "P", "M", and "S"  and the color "Red".

If you took any of this blog seriously, you need help.  I am usually a ray of fucking sunshine.  

Ask anyone.  

 

Who the Hell Am I?

This is a blog I put together because I was tagged by a fellow blogger:  The Zookeeper's Wife (She is all kinds of awesome so please go give her a read!) and asked to do a lil informational bloggy type thing, so........strap in!  It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

1.  Where were you born?

I was born in Fremont, Michigan at Gerber Memorial Hospital.  My father quickly joined the military so my grandfather wouldn't shoot him and we moved around a lot after that.

2.  Were you named after someone?

I was born in the month of April, about nine months after my teenage parents engaged in back seat antics that I do not care to even think about.  I guess when the doctor said I was a girl, one of them said "Shit!  What month is it??"  So, here I am.  (Side note:  My father told me at one point he wanted to name me Heidi.  I have red hair.  I feel like I dodged a bullet there.)  My grandmother begged my mother to terminate the pregnancy but my mother decided that 16 was a perfect age to raise a child and said "Hell no" and then took off with my father.  [I personally think adopting me out would've been a viable option, but, that's just hindsight talking.]

3.  If you have children, how many do you have?

I have three kids and one who didn't make it home from the hospital when he was born (a long time ago).  This has always been a hard question for me to answer, but I promised I would be more "real" with my writing because real stuff happens sometimes so, there it is.  

4.  How many pets do you have?

We have two cats.  Sammy and Batman.  Sammy has been with us for over 8 years and was named after a Girl Scout cookie (my daughter was in Girl Scouts at the time so she named her gray tiger "Samoa" (also known as Caramel Delights..purrr)  We call her Sammy).  Batman is an asshole who pees on things if he is unsupervised.  I almost pepper sprayed Batman one night when he got stuck in my son's room, made a huge racket that sounded very robbery and killy and I jumped out of bed naked (um, I was alone, shut up) grabbed my pepper spray, kicked the bedroom door open and almost got him (and myself) in the face.  See? Asshole.

5.  What was your worst injury?

I'm just gonna go with a funny one here.  When I was about five years old, I wanted something that was on top of my dresser.  I decided it would be a swell idea to climb UP the dresser to get to said item and the dresser fell on me.  My father had to take me to the ER, bleeding everywhere, and he almost passed out because he can't handle the sight of blood.

6.  Do you have a special talent?

I can take my bra off while remaining otherwise fully clothed.  Shut up, that totally counts.

7.  What is your favorite thing to bake?

Lasagne and brownies. 

8.  What is your favorite fast food?

Does Qdoba count?  Totally Qdoba.  Or Chipotles.  Mexican.  (Taco Bell doesn't count.  Unless I'm drunk.  But seriously - what is IN that stuff?)

9.  Would you bungee jump?

Are you INSANE?  I'd be the one pooping my pants on the way down and I am SURE my daughter would get it on video.  So, we are gonna go with a big ole "Negative Ghost Rider" on that one.   I would love to go sky diving though.  Even though I am super afraid of heights.  Dammit.

10.  What is the first thing you notice about people?

This is gonna sound weird, but.. the way they make me feel.  I get a hinky sense about people and I can usually smell a bullshitter a mile away.  This skill has taken me almost 39 years to develop.  

11.  When was the last time you cried?

Please.  I never cry.  Unless I am out of coffee.  Alright, I cry about once every 28 days and it usually has something to do with my thighs. 

12.  Any current worries?

• Are my thighs engaged in some sort of conspiracy against my pants?
• Is my cat trying to kill me?
• Where am I going to live in a few months? (I'm not homeless, just looking for a new place - chillax)
• My daughter is going to be 18 next year.  Holy shit.
• Is YouTube ever going to stop showing me "demo" videos when all I want is the fucking OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO?  And where is the "YES TO ALL" button that should be next to "Skip this Ad?"  It is ALWAYS "Yes" YouTube.  Always.  (This keeps me up at night.)

13.  Name three drinks you drink regularly.

Coffee, milk with coffee in it, and water.  If I am feeling boozy, it's a GOOD red wine or sangria.

14.  What is your favorite book?

I loved "Gone With the Wind".  Read it three times as a teenager.  It's over 500 pages long but I spent a lot of time locked in my room trying to avoid my family. :)  I love a wide variety of books so I could fill this entire blog with titles.

15.  Would you like to be a pirate?

No.  If I am a pirate, and Johnny Depp is a pirate (a'la Captain Jack) it kinda ruins the whole "damsel in distress" thing I had going on.  I think I would keep some Listerine breath strips handy for when he goes in for the kiss though.

16.  What are your favorite smells?

Coffee, jasmine, lavender, men's cologne, fresh baked bread, that newborn baby smell (I could sniff their heads all day long)

17.  Why do you blog?

I blog because as I go through my daily routine and see the most innocuous things, my brain turns them into stories and I get distracted unless and until I sit and write them down.  I have a lot of things I have written that I am sure nobody will ever see.   

18.  What song do you want played at your funeral?

Chumbawamba "Tub Thumping"  

Just because.

19.  What is the least favorite thing about yourself?

The fact that I am so neurotic.  I also wish I was less intelligent so stupid people didn't bother me. (Sheldon Cooper much?)  I know, I know...

20.  What is your favorite hobby?

Reading and writing.  And embarrassing my children.  (Yelling out the door "MAKE GOOD CHOICES!!" as the older two are getting on the bus in the morning. Ah, I love it.) I'm a simple girl.  I also don't have a lot of time for hobbies.

21.   What do you look for in a friend?

The ability to laugh at almost anything.  Someone chill who will complement my neurotic, yet charmingly awkward personality.

22.  Name something you've done that you never thought you'd do.

We went through a "TEAM BUILDING" ropes course when I worked at the University and my boss said that, at the end of it all, if I'd climb to the top of the telephone pole with a harness on, counting on my DUMB ASS co-workers to pull the ropes tight so I wouldn't SPLAT, then he would do it too.  I am deathly afraid of heights but I also was (and am) very competitive.  I couldn't turn down a dare and he knew it.  (Also, I was like, 22 years old and a total show off)

He and I were the only two who did it.  We took turns climbing to the top of the damn pole, stood on it (the tops of telephone poles are about six inches wide you guys and the thing was about 60 feet tall) and counted to three and jumped - counting on our co-workers to yank the ropes, tightening our harnesses and preventing us from plummeting to our certain deaths.   

That was the first time I ever said "HOLYMUTHAFUCKINSHITBALLS IFUCKINGHATEYOUGUYS!!!!!!" in front of my boss.  

Also something I never thought I'd do.  

Kind of a two-fer there.

23.  What are your favorite things to do?

Cuddling with my youngest child (gotta enjoy it while she still lets me), watching movies with my kids, traveling, seeing and doing new things, going on adventures, making people laugh, drinking mah coffeh!!

24.  Any pet peeves?

I can't stand listening to people chew with their mouths open, slurp food or chomp their gum.  Bad table manners disgust me.  

25.  What is the last thing that made you laugh?

The last thing that made me full-on belly laugh was when my friend and I went to Subway and I told her I wonder if the sandwich guy has self esteem issues because chicks spend all day asking for 12 inches on white and when he gets home he only has 6.  Her chokes of laughter made me choke and we both looked like a couple of idiots and that made us laugh more and I don't know how either of us made it out without peeing our pants.

____________________________________________

I'm supposed to tag some other bloggers but I am a newbie (on this particular site) and don't want to annoy less tolerant writer-types so I am going to just come back later and give you a list of some of my favorites and ask you to go read them.

Updated:  Here are my personal Top Ten - The bloggers I read every day:

Seriously!?!

Insane in the Mom-Brain

People I Want to Punch in the Throat

Bitches Gotta Eat

The Klonopin Chronicles

The Happy Hausfrau

What I Had Really Meant to Say

I Want a Dumpster Baby

Slice of Humble

Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess


Go give them a read and tell them I sent you.

Go on - git.

The Things They Don't Tell You About Being a Single Parent

A single parent (or solo parent) is a parent, not living with a spouse or partner, who has most of the day-to-day responsibilities in raising the child or children.

Sounds fairly straight-forward doesn't it? Oh, what a short and neat description for one of the most intense, difficult jobs I could've ever imagined having.

I didn't sign up for this.

I didn't plan to be a single parent. I didn't get "knocked up" and plan to raise children by myself. I thought I was going to have help. I got married almost 20 years ago, had two planned babies and one surprise (er, blessing) and then, when my youngest was two and a half, and the other two were nearly teenagers, I left my husband. What. The. Fuck. Was. I. Thinking? That is a thought that has crossed my mind often in the last four years. Followed quickly by a remembrance of some dumbass thing my ex had done and a sigh of relief I didn't have to live with him on a daily basis anymore. Honestly - three children is enough.

But really. The realization that these little humans are, like, my responsibility. That gut-wrenching "I took them from their father" thing that happens (still) in the middle of the night sometimes. The constant questioning of whether I could've sucked it up for another 15 years so they could've had the illusion of a happy childhood.

Yeah...no. I was dying inside. So, I left.

Seven years prior to my actual departure, we had had the "I'm leaving your ass if you don't knock your shit off" discussion and I almost left him then. But I gave him about six hundred second chances. Also, I didn't want to be alone. Raising (at that time) two babies. By myself.

This time shit was real. I fucking did it.   Damn, I really did it.  What the hell am I gonna do now??

The first night alone in my new place, when he picked them up for their first "overnight" visit, I cried for pretty much the whole night. That sucked. It got better but not much. Nothing prepares you for that feeling. And, nothing can prepare you for the job of being a single parent.

Here are some things I didn't know:

Nobody understands - unless they are other single parents.  Other parents will judge you immediately. They will question why you didn't suck it up for the sake of the kids. (Never mind that you didn't tell them the dirty details of it all to spare HIM) They don't understand why you are so tired and stressed out all the time. They have NO idea what that extra warm body at home means. And your married girlfriends bitching about how their lazy ass husbands fed their childen FROZEN PIZZA that night for dinner? Well, they are gonna make you want to punch them in the throat. You had help? You selfish.... Ugh. They just don't get it. Don't expect them to.

 There really are NO sick days. Or tired days.  After working for 9 hours a day (plus my one hour commute each way to and from work) I would pick up the little one from day care, go home and start my second shift "job". The thing about kids is they need to eat every single day. (They don't tell you that shit in the hospital). Also, dishes and laundry need to be done. Every day. And bath time. And general house cleaning. School papers need to be signed. Field trips need to be noted on the calendar. Checks for lunch money need to be written. There is no handing this stuff off to anyone. It's all you. Maybe you can make time for the flu this weekend. Right now, suck it up and let's do this. Pansy.

Your friends aren't going to see you. Ever. Especially the single, kid-less ones.   Remember how, when you were married you could go out for girls night every now and then, have a drink and know that the kids were taken care of? Remember when you had money to buy new clothes, matching undergarments, and beer? Forget it. You don't have any extra money. And you can't afford the recovery time a night of drinking will require. Even if they are at dad's that particular night, they will be back tomorrow. And, tomorrow? Well, you're pretty much fucked. Kids don't care if you have a headache. They have shit going on and it's important and you better listen. Dammit. She just learned how to sing "Wheels on the Bus" and that shit rocks and if you don't sit there for an hour listening to it fifty times in a row you suck as a mother. Haven't they already been through enough?? (Yes, you will put up with some crazy ass shit because of that sentence)

Your ex is going to drive you insane. One of the most difficult things for me was not bashing my children's father in front of my children. When he doesn't make child support payments on time and/or doesn't help pay for school activities or lunch money, or winter coats. It's really, REALLY, difficult not to go on a total psychotic rant about what an irresponsible fuck-wit he is. When your child tells you they NEED money for band shoes for a performance tomorrow and you don't get paid for two days and you write a check hoping it clears .... Yeah, you kinda want to bad mouth him a little bit. When he responds to any message you send him - UNLESS it has to do with money or stuff the kids need - and you want to strangle him. Or scream. Don't do it in front of your kids. As much of an ass as he can be, he is still their dad and they need to hold on to some semblance of their father as being a decent human being. But, DO go punch something after they leave. It will make you feel MUCH better.



Guess who's going to the convenience store at midnight?  You are. There is no one to help you run errands anymore. If the three year old stuffs the last of the toilet paper down the john, not only do you have to do the plumbing repair, you also have to go to the store in the middle of the night to re-stock. That twenty year old kid who is always working at 2:00 a.m. at the Circle K better get used to your disheveled hair/yoga pants/fuck-with-me-and-I-kill look otherwise your relationship is going to be very strained. You will become buddies. Trust me. He will never be out of milk or toilet paper. Or chocolate. Or tissues. He knows.

There are a million and one other things you learn as a single parent but I guess the most important lesson is that you are strong enough to do it all alone.  

Even if you wish you didn’t have to. 

__________________________________________ 

If you've enjoyed this blog, please take a moment to vote for me:
http://www.circleofmoms.com/top25/Top-25-Single-Moms-2013 

Can Moms Be Sexy?

I was pondering this question after I fell off the scale at the doctor's office.  Okay, that probably requires an explaination:  I stepped on the scale, saw a number I had never seen before, nearly fainted, and the nurse had to catch me.  (PS:  If I go to the doctor's office for a sinus infection, DON'T make me step on the scale.  I already feel like crap thankyouverymuch.  Giving me cardiac arrest is not cool.)

 

I then re-examined my need to get my ever-expanding ass back to the gym.

 

I have always been a little bit vain.  I have always wanted to look nice, both for myself and for my partner.  It feels good when I look good.  Right now, I don't look my best you guys. 

 

Not only do I want to firm up and lose some weight, but I also miss that terrific feeling I get after a good workout.  Even though the results don't come as quickly as they used to, the endorphin rush, the muscle tone, and the sense of a job well done always felt pretty damn good.  It was a GREAT stress reliever.

 

Yep!  I did Power Step!

Last time I made a full-on commited effort to get my ass back in shape, I did it with a vengeance.  The weight wasn't really dropping (in large part due to a not-as-of-that-time-diagnosed medical-type issue), but my BODY felt good.  I remember distinctly, after my first full month going to the gym four times a week, I was kind of strutting around in front of the full length mirror, ignoring the flaws, checking out the muscle I found in my thigh – oh yeah, they're on their way back baby! Then I started shaking my booty. It didn't shake as much as it did last month. Then of course, I had to flex my arms a bit. Nice biceps (I say to myself). Keep up the good work!

Then I pulled a muscle patting myself on the back (dammit).

 

It made me think that I can be a mother AND be hot and sexy again.  Is that vain?  Am I allowed to want to be as pretty as I can?   I haven't been taking the best care of myself this last few years. Time to change all that. There is hope for me yet. Motherhood is job number one - but can we be great mothers and still take pride in our appearance?

 

 

With everything mothers have going on in our day to day lives, it's so easy to put our looks and health at the bottom of the list. I have always tried to stay in shape, but I have to tell you that being a single mom, working a full time job, transporting kids to their various instrument lessons and concerts and ballet (don't forget ballet!), and also keeping up with the house work it's not easy!  I am tired all the time and I rely far too often on convenience meals.  I don't make time to work out.  Or sleep.  Hobby?  What's a hobby? 

 

I really think we Muthas tend to put ourselves last.  I don't think we even mind or give it a second thought for the most part.  It just is the way it is.  And then we wake up one day and wonder what the HELL happened.

 

Sometimes, this causes relationship issues. One partner (we will say "Mom" for the sake of this blog) quits taking care of herself because everything else comes first. She isn't getting help from her mate because he figures he put in 9 solid hours or so at the office so he's done his part. Time to sit back, enjoy the hot meal before him, and then go take a snooze in front of the tube, while she cleans up the kitchen, washes dishes, gets the toddler out of the dishwasher, bathes the children, pulls the toddler out of the toilet…….the list goes on.  

  

By the time the work/transporting/chores are done, she is exhausted.  He's refreshed after his dinner and his nice little nap on the couch and when they finally do get to bed the only action he is seeing is a punch to the nuts when he tries to touch her. 

 

Men are visually oriented. He sees her in sweat pants and a hair bun and no make up one day too many and he's lost the attraction. Women are action-oriented. Show us something and we will show YOU something (IF you know what I mean). Don't be afraid of things like dish soap and diapers. If the only action you are showing us is your napping ability, the only action you will be getting is the do-it-yourself kind.  We really WILL be too tired to be enthusiastic about your penis.  (Hehe - I said "penis")

 

The formula is really quite simple:

Tired, overworked and ignored moms and wives = NO SEX

Happy, relaxed and loved moms and wives = HOT SEX.

 

Now, ladies.... I am NOT suggesting you "use" sex to get what you want.  That's not cool and if you withhold sex as a form of behavior modification, that's totally wrong.  I mean, I hear it works REALLY, REALLY well, but still... Let him know he's not doing enough.  Ask for what you want.  With your words, not your locked vagina.  (But, you know, save the really dirty stuff for when he washes the pans.) 

 

Guys - when she makes an effort - acknowledge it.  When in doubt - ACKNOWLEDGE IT.  "Your hair looks really great with yogurt in it." goes over much better than "You haven't shaved since the Clinton administration, have you?"

 

If I could, I would get manicures, pedicures, massages and facials (hehe, I said "facials") a few times a month; Just to feel pampered and good about myself. That's just not possible on this budget, but someday, when my first book is published, I will pamper myself - A LOT. Until then, I will make do with what I have. I'll get my ass back to the gym, put on my make up everyday, and drink my 8 glasses of water a day.  

 

I DO get my nails done every few weeks and I am okay with that.  I quit smoking two years ago and I would much rather spend a little bit of money on something that makes me feel pretty rather than a lot of money on something that is going to kill me.  

 



It makes me feel great.  And everyone should have the opportunity to feel great, don't you think?

(This is the re-working of a blog I originally published in 2007, when I was married, the youngest was a toddler, and I really needed to feel like it was okay to want to be sexy. It has been updated/edited to fit my current situation.)

Channing Tatum Doesn't Melt My Butter (And Other Reasons I May Lose My Girl Card)

Sometimes I feel like it's only a matter of time before I lose my girl card.  I mean, I don't seem to get my panties in a bunch for the same things most other women do.  For example:

1.  Channing Tatum doesn't melt my butter.

Yes, you read that right.  No, I am not a lesbian.  I am, however, probably one of the very last women on the planet to watch "Magic Mike". (I still haven't seen 'The Vow".  He is in that one too, right?)

Ya'all can stop throwing stuff at me now.

Geez.  Bitches be trippin.

 

I kept meaning to watch Magic Mike.  Really.  I knew I definitely wanted to see all that man flesh up on the big screen...but it just never made it on my "must do" list.   I finally rented it a few nights ago just to see what all the fuss was about.  Now, I am NOT going to lie, I totally didn't mind watching (and, maybe, re-watching, you know, for research purposes) those nekkid dance scenes.  I AM a woman after all, and sometimes we love to watch half naked men flex their...uh...stuff.  I just don't get why Channing Tatum is such a big deal.  To me, he looks like a 15 year old boy with a steroid habit.   And his huge ears bother me.  Yes, ladies, I was looking at his ears.  And, no, I am not coming out as a lesbian.  I swear.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

2.  Fifty Shades of Grey made me yawn.

I tried to read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I made it through the entire first book. It was a pain-staking process that started to feel like homework after awhile.  I could not finish the trilogy and I was a little concerned about those friends who told me how much they LOVED the books and told me I just HAD to read them.  And, no, it wasn't the subject matter that bothered me.  (In case you live under a rock, these books talk about BDSM and power exchange relationships.  Oooooh scandalous!)  To be honest, my partner and I do things on the weekends that would make Christian Grey blush.  No, that wasn't the problem at all. 

 

It was the juvenile writing and the unbelievable story line:

Rich bazillionaire falls for bumbling college virgin who orgasms, like, the first time he looks at her. He gets jealous whenever she talks to anyone her own age, and buys her a car five minutes after meeting her. Oh, and then spanks her ass and stuff. She questions her desires and cries for, like, a year, and the book ends with us thinking she is going to basically jump off a bridge.

In order to try to keep it interesting so I could finish the book, I invented a drinking game. I decided that every time his "penetrating gaze" made her "flush bright red" I would take a shot. I was hammered by Chapter 3.

That part was fun.

3. I am not crafty - at all.

I look at all these things my girlfriends are "pinning" on Pinterest and I know about half of my friends actually have the desire to do this stuff. I wonder "Who has time for all this shit?" I have three kids, a full time job and a man in my life. I rarely have time to sleep for 8 hours a night.


I don't decoupage. (If you had to Google that, we will get along just fine). I used to scrapbook, but I think I got one kid's album done up to the age of 5 and the other two are S.O.L. (They have online scrapbooking now. Boom.) Most of my children's photos are still in digital format. I don't sew. I don't typically bake for fun (unless it's Christmas cookies) and I don't knit or paint flower pots or any of that other stuff. I simply have no desire to sit down and make little kitschy things to put on shelves in my house. I seem to be missing that gene.

I can cook. I can sew on a button if I need to. But sewing for recreation sounds like torture to me. I don't know if I could even sit still for long enough to do it. I seem to have adult-onset A.D.O.S. (Attention Deficit "Ooh! Shiny!").

Shut up, it's a real thing.

4. I prefer action movies over chick flicks.


I love movies that have big, dirty, sweaty, muscle-bound guys chasing after each other with guns and blowing shit up. Want to bring me to tears in the movie theater? Bring the original "Die Hard" back to the big screen. Not that "Die Harder With a Vengeance" crap with the over-the-top computer generated action. The original. The one with all the action and sweat and blood in it.

Or, how about Indiana Jones? No, not 70 year old Harrison Ford with his stupid earring in one ear hobbling around the desert looking for his dentures while Calista Flockhart changes his diaper. The original "Raiders of the Lost Ark". On big screen. Scruffy archaeologist with fedora and whip saves damsel in distress. Serious. Lady. Wood.

Fuck "Magic Mike"

5. Classic cars make my motor run.

I have always had an affinity for big, gas guzzling, motor revving, room-in-the-backseat, shiny classic cars. 7 miles to the gallon? Talk slower baby. Give me a 1967 Chevelle SS over a 2012 Camaro anyday. I don't want to hear a smooth motor..no..I want the VROOM! VROOM! old school environmentally irresponsible and totally bad ass panty dropping roaring engine from Hell.

I know, I'm weird.

Can we still be friends?

Girls' Night Out or National Geographic?

I was recently contemplating the last time I went out for a totally wild and crazy girls night out. You know, those nights you just want to dress like Snookie's slutty mom, drink too much tequila, and place bets with your girlfriends on who can last the longest in 4 inch heels? The nights you know damn well you are going to drink so much bad tequila you will be blaming that shit for your badass (awkward) dance moves and amazing (cat in heat) singing voice? Those nights.

We are old (late 30's) so we had a plan. Yes, we plan shit when we get older. Like your mom does.


We did all the right things: My friend's husband was designated driver (and security), we ate before we started drinking, and we asked the DJ to play songs that didn't suck. PS: Why do those assholes never listen? I HATE that dance remix crap. Just when you think you're moving in the right direction, they mix another stupid song in and totally mess up the groove. Pretty damn dangerous after you've had a few shots and you're dancing around in high-heeled boots. Disc jockeys, listen up: Play some funky leg-humping jams and let us act half our age for shit's sake. How hard is that? We don't care how badass your record scratching skillz are. This isn't 8 Mile. And you're twice as white as Eminem is. Knock it off already.

ANYWHO - I was very optimistic about this night out, regardless of the fact the DJ kept playing douche-tastic spins that barely resembled any music I've ever wanted to listen to. I was maintaining a delicate balance on the heels of my boots, and I was feeling fabulous. Sorta.

Maybe the problem was that I was not drunk enough. I mean, in my 20's I was able to go out almost every weekend, drink until last call (and try to bribe the bar tender for a few extra) and almost always (key word – almost) stay on my feet. I swear, I had many, many EPIC nights out with my friends. We wore EPIC clothes and drank EPIC shooters and dissed the most EPIC douchebags. It was so much fun - wasn't it? Huh.... I think I was probably just so obliterated I didn't realize how much it really sucked. Blackouts were a gift.


This time around, I was more observant. I now realize how closely the bar scene resembles something from the National Geographic Channel. The predators (men or something resembling the male form) are surrounding the hunting ground (dance floor) waiting for their prey (drunk, half-dressed women) to fall so they can cull the weak ones from the herd one-by-one. The closer that clock gets to 2:00 a.m., the wider their eyes get. The saliva dripping, they start to growl; rubbing their paws together in anticipation. You can SMELL their desperation as they are making their selections. It's really quite sad. What's even MORE sad is the girls whose self esteem is dependent on being able to leave the bar with some snaggle toothed knuckle dragger who can't even properly hold her hair out of her face while she's puking, much less hold an erection lasting longer than 10 seconds.



Now, I can't say I have NEVER been that girl. Let's be honest. Shit happens. Tequila clouds our already-tenuous judgment. But, when you grow the fuck up and take a look at what is going on out there, it takes the fun right out of it.

My biggest annoyance is that, for some reason, most men seem to think that any woman on the dance floor is fair game. It's like they figure, well, if she didn't totally want to jump on my junk, she wouldn't be shaking her hips like that. Really, dude? We shake our hips for the same reason guys scratch their balls - because we can. (Or because we can barely stand). I'm a pretty independent girl, so I can handle myself, however, when I see some idiot going for a cop-a-feel move on one of my girlfriends, shit is gonna go down. Just don't, dude.

We shouldn't have to take self-defense class to enjoy ourselves. All I dream of is a world where women can dress like total whores, get completely wasted and have guys leave us alone so we can go home by ourselves and cry about how fat and ugly we must be because none of those assholes paid attention to us.

Is that too much to ask?

Damn.

Are You Emotionally Slutty?

We all know one don’t we?  The slut.  The friend who is never home on a Friday night and has a smile on her face all week.  Generally speaking, a slut is a woman who gives her body indiscriminately to whoever strikes her fancy or scratches her itch.  A woman who acts like a man, but we give her a dirty title so she feels like a lesser person for it (that is a subject for another blog).   Anyway…

 
What about emotional sluts?  How are we emotionally slutty in new relationships?  What does it even MEAN to be an emotional slut? 

Emotional sluts tend to give too much information too soon.   Discussing issues from past relationships before establishing a new one.  It's about giving away your heart and exposing your vulnerabilities before it’s appropriate.  Let’s face it:  Raping his ear for hours before he even has a chance to determine if he likes you or not.  Sound familiar? 

First dates are not the time to talk about how many times you’ve broken up and how every guy you’ve ever dated told you how crazy you are (you may want to see a shrink about that by the way).   It’s not the time to discuss how you have trust issues or how men who chew with their mouths open remind you of your father, who, by the way, was kind of an asshole when you were growing up.   (That’s really more of a twelfth date subject.)  It’s also not the time to bitch about your ex and discuss every single flaw he had or asshole behavior he demonstrated to you, while projecting all those bad feelings on the innocent (yet slightly terrified) man sitting across from you at the dinner table.



What do you think is going through this guy’s head as he is attempting to appear as though he is listening to your rambling train of thought (which has long-since de-railed)?  He’s trying to figure out how he can possibly manage to discreetly decline the dessert menu and get out of this without exchanging phone numbers, yet still have sex with you.  He’s mentally shopping for duct tape and ear plugs.  Yes, he is even contemplating ditching you in exchange for a quiet masturbation session at home.  What would YOU do in his situation?

Now, I’m pretty much perfect as you all know, but I can say I have found myself doing this, ON OCCASION.  Maybe not on a first date...  First dates are for re-directing the conversation to him so I can avoid talking about myself.  I try not to sabotage things until at least date three.  I mean, a bitch has to eat, right?  But, seriously, by the third date I am trying to figure out what the guy’s angle is.  We’ve had a few meals together, maybe we’ve had a little fun on the side.  What more is there?  I’m not LOOKING for a relationship.  Hmph.

So, what happens next?  We deploy Operation: Emotional Slut.  (Lock and load, bitches).  This is not usually a conscious effort on our part.  This comes from actually having been in shit relationships that probably caused a hell of a lot of damage and issues that, quite frankly, most men wouldn’t touch with another man’s borrowed pole.  But subconsciously, I am pretty sure we are trying to sabotage the these new opportunities in order to spare ourselves from that dreaded “F” word:  Feelings.  *shudder*  

If you think about it, isn’t this the same reason some girls are sexual sluts?   It’s so easy to be slutty with someone, but the other stuff, the relationship stuff, is hard.  It takes work.  And I don’t know about you, but I am pretty fucking tired.  So, if we hammer them with unwanted information, they will run like hell and we can justify our insecurities by telling ourselves “See?  He didn’t like me either.  Forever alone.”   And we “don’t know why.”  You do now.  You were an emotional slut.  You sabotaged it yourself because you are insecure.

Try opening your ears and closing your lips for a minute.  Wait to hear what he has to say before you railroad him with all your baggage.   Learn how to accept a compliment.   Maybe, just MAYBE he’s not an asshole who is waiting to hurt you and run like hell.

Maybe he…likes you.